The Burning
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: Getting shot burned, John decided. Takes place as John is shot in Afghanistan. Warning for sad stuff. Honey 'Verse


**Disclaimer: Not mine. Really. If they were then I'd be far too busy doing "other things" to write.**

**A/N: Warning. This one shot is John's thoughts after he was shot in Afghanistan. It's rather disjointed because…well, I'd assume that getting shot would kind of fracture your thought process. I hope it makes sense. I think it does. Anyway, let me know what you think. Remember: reviews are candy…wait I don't like candy. Reviews are fruit…yeah I like fruit so gimme lots.**

The Burning

Getting shot _burned_, John decided. It didn't hurt, exactly. Captain John Watson knew pain. His lovely husband was a magnet for trouble and it was usually John that ended up hurt, only because he couldn't allow Sherlock to be injured. So he knew pain. It was an old friend.

He knew the aching of bruises and strained muscles. He knew the sharp agony of a broken bone. He knew the sting of cut skin. And he knew the feeling of burning. Burning was like no other pain. With any of the others they faded and a hand placed over the injured area helped to dull some of the pain. But burning…burning never ebbed. Burning was a pain that felt as though it went on for an eternity. And getting shot burned worse than the time Sherlock had spilled acid on his leg.

John fought against the pain for long enough to open his eyes and take in the clear blue sky above him. He'd never seen skies so blue. They almost matched Sherlock's eyes when he'd just woken up. John loved that sleepy look that hadn't change an iota since the day Sherlock had been born.

The burning, the fire threatened to consume him but he battled it back, again. Sherlock would have an absolute fit if he allowed his transport to dictate to his mind.

There was something that he was supposed to be doing but he couldn't remember what it was. All that mattered was the burning. Had Sherlock got him with the acid again? They'd be having words in that case. Sherlock had promised to label any acid in their flat. That's what he was supposed to be doing, he suddenly remembered. He needed to make sure that Sherlock was alright. Where had he gone?

He tried to form his husband's name but he couldn't even hear himself over the roaring of the fire. How would Sherlock hear him when the fire was making so much bloody noise? He wanted to scream. The fire was burning him. He needed to get to Sherlock and make sure he was safe and not burning. He couldn't hear Sherlock screaming so maybe he was safe. Still he needed to know that not just think or hope.

"Captain Watson! Can you hear me, sir?"

Who was that? Why were they shouting at him? Couldn't they see the burning, the fire? Why were they asking stupid questions? Sherlock would be merciless with them. He would verbally fillet them for their idiocy.

"Captain Watson! You have to stay with me, sir!"

John finally recognized the voice screaming at him and he tried to smile reassurance at the obviously panicky nurse, Bill Murray. Though really, panic didn't suit Bill. Bill was the stoic type. And what was he doing in London?

Suddenly it all clicked. Bill wasn't in London. The roaring of the fire was only the blood rushing through his ears. The fire, the burning was a gunshot wound. John wondered if he should be worried that he'd drifted so far from reality but all he could feel beyond the burning was relief because Sherlock was safe. Safe and far, far away from Afghanistan.

"Johnny, c'mon, mate! Stay with me, Johnny."

Bill was screaming at him again. He once again struggled to open his eyes. When had he closed them? Why was Bill screaming at him to stay with him? They weren't together; he was married to the only genius Consulting Detective on the planet. Happily married and very much in love with his husband.

"Johnny, stay with me. C'mon Johnny, that's it keep looking at me."

He hadn't gone anywhere. He wished he could. He missed London. He missed the rain and the fog and most of all, he missed Sherlock. And he didn't want to look at Bill he wanted to watch those blue, blue skies that reminded him of Sherlock's eyes.

_Focus, John!_ He could hear Sherlock's stroppy voice in his head. The one that said Sherlock thought he was being deliberately obtuse. _You've been shot, idiot! Focus!_

Right, of course he'd been shot. He was in the middle of a war zone!

"Johnny! They're coming. The medics are here! You're going to be alright, Captain."

John resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Of course he was going to be all right. Sherlock would shoot him himself if he'd dared to come back home dead.

_Please, God, let me live._ He prayed. _Sherlock still needs me._

His last thought before the blood loss took him under was of Sherlock's sleepy blue eyes and bright smile in the mornings.


End file.
